


Fallout of the Black Parade

by DesperateSummers (allagesclubs)



Category: Gerard Way and the Hormones, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dystopia, Multi, Post-MCR, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allagesclubs/pseuds/DesperateSummers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, the followers of My Chemical Romance inhabit a city where the public shares a common bond through music. The city is divided into four districts based off of the four eras, in which the music can be heard almost anywhere. Imagine all your friends live right down the street, you're free to pursue any goals you wish without needing to fret about financial instability, and you're clear from judgement. Now imagine that being decimated before your eyes on March 22, 2013. The four leaders have disappeared, the streets are no longer safe to walk, intruders have attacked the vulnerable city, and worst of all the music has been reduced to silence. Alex has survived six months in this chaotic world, and without her best friend by her side will she be able to last much longer in the broken city she once invested so much faith in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I stand outside the ally as day breathes its last few breaths, and the sun slips between the cracks of the skyline. Sun fall is slightly earlier when summer is on its deathbed. Taking a last glance at the ink-stained sky, I retreat to the former record store where I live. Of course, it's not an actual store anymore. Only a few of the original shops have continued to function since the collapse, and in those the host gang must recognize you, or else you'll be shot on sight. The store I've inhabited is empty with nothing but garbage littering the floors. It's difficult to find a place to stay for the night, because gangs have claimed so many of the large chain buildings that make up a decent portion of the city.  
I slink up to the second floor where I am less detectable, and take a seat on what's left of a mangled bed frame. Most of the planks of wood that would normally be holding a mattress up are missing, and small holes in them indicate that the frame might have been used in a gunfight sometime in the past. I tug my boots off and give my feet a chance to breathe. Soon I will hear the gunshots. Living in an apocalyptic city once known for its ever-changing culture and spirited citizens couldn't be more depressing; the city of My Chemical Romance erupted in shambles less than six months ago when the four keeping it together disappeared. They left nothing. No resources to keep the city running, no one to take their place, no clues about where they are. Following the disappearance gangs from other towns quickly attacked our vulnerable city. Soon after, the power shut off, the streets reduced to chaos, and although other cities sent rescue teams, I haven't heard of any more spotted in months. If you left the city you faced miles of desert even the bravest of Killjoys have never returned from on foot. Gas doesn't pump anymore, so cars are mainly used for shelter or explosives in fights.  
I attempt to smooth out my scraggly hair, and rest on the broken bed frame keeping my gun and backpack next to the bed, so I can reach down and grab them if need be. I assumably won't have to. I live on the west side of the Revenge District. This is a relatively quiet section of town, and this building is only visited by a gang once a week as part of their patrolling pattern on which I find another place to sleep that night.  
I am still awoken at one point by the sounds of gunshots outside. The sound of glass breaking no longer occurs on a regular basis, due to the fact that no glass is left to break. Moderately uneasy, I don't return to my slumber until the shots stop. Before drifting off I think about how much I miss Phoebe.  
I didn't always travel alone. Only about four weeks ago, I had my best friend by my side. We knew each other before the city collapsed, and upheld a strong bond of trust. We honored a pact to keep each other alive. Unfortunately, a gang from the Killjoy district gunned her down right before my eyes. I feel as though I’ve failed her. I should’ve seen the group of them when we were rounding that corner. Forgiving myself has proved to be a challenge, but the need to stay alive has salvaged me through. In these conditions, my self-esteem is far from my biggest problem.  
I have considered joining a gang. Not because I think people should kill over differences in opinion, but because it would shield from danger. However, aiding the violence that killed my best friend, would be extremely dishonorable and painfully ironic.  
The gunshots outside have become routine and expected, but that doesn't make them less terrifying. Even now I still experience the same shock of adrenaline and fear when a gun is aimed at me. The first time I wasn’t expecting it. I was in my own home only a month after The Four left, when I discovered a guy looting my apartment. He aimed his gun at my head and forced me out, threatening to kill me if I came back. He looked about eighteen and had shaved half his red hair. Immediately I bolt to Phoebe’s. We only lasted five days living together in her apartment until a gang invaded the building. After gaining experience with my gun, I did return to my apartment only to find that an explosive gutted the interior of the building. I was and still am utterly disappointed in my city for resorting to mass violence so quickly. From then on, Phoebe and I never left each other's side; at least until she took a bullet in the head.  
After getting as comfortable as I can in this situation, I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles that haven't fallen down. I wish I had someone to talk to. Unfortunately, the only person I would truly want to interact with is dead, and that's also the reason I need someone to talk to. Again, the idea of joining a gang comes to mind. Traveling alone feels like suicide, and I'm going crazy without valid communication.  
But again, joining a gang would be spitting on my best friend’s grave. Not only that, but I don’t agree with the goals most gangs have on their agenda. In this city, most of the gangs are trying to take as much territory as they can to take power. From what I’ve heard they all think they are going to regain control of the city and either set it back up, or remodel it into something completely different. I would give anything to have the city back to what it once was, but I don’t think mass violence is going to get us there.  
The night crawls by without too many interruptions. None of the gunshots were close enough to wake me up.  
I stretch out upon awakening. The joints in my neck, back, hips, and shoulders pop as they always do. My last good night of sleep had to have been months ago.  
I pry up a chunk of floorboard revealing my stashed water bottles. With no more running water, I’m obligated to get all the water I use from the market. The market is an odd section of town between the Killjoy District and the Parade District. There is the place to acquire items not available inside the city. Many think this would stir up an immense amount of violence, because it features all the gangs corralled in one joint. However, everyone seems to have a sort of shared objective as soon as you step inside the borders of the market. The resources brought from out of town are vital to all of us. If we cause too much trouble within its borders, or if anyone were to kill a tradesperson, they’d probably all disappear from the city, and leave us all without crucial items of survival.  
Unscrewing the cap, I take a swig of water before realizing it is the last bottle I have. With the bottle nearly empty, I suppose I will be making a trip to the market far sooner than I expected. The only issue is that I’ve had no money, and nothing to trade recently. Consequently, my only option is to do some sort of work for a merchant in exchange for supplies. I’ve done it a handful of times on occasion. Usually it only takes a couple of hours moving boxes, assisting the guards, or shouting in advertisement to attract more customers to a particular stall.  
In the first rays of the day, I sneak out of the dilapidated record store I call home, and keep my eye out for signs of life as I head towards the direction of the market. I avoid the Killjoy District, because it by far has the most violence. I have been shot at nearly every time I’ve gone in there. The route I take goes through the Parade District, which is significantly less dangerous. Not that I haven’t been targeted there, but if you are running away unaccompanied, most Parade District snipers won’t continue to shoot.  
It’s rather early in the morning, yet I won’t know what time it is exactly until I get closer to the Parade District. It features a large clock tower near the center of town that is still correct to this day. I attempt to enjoy the walk considering it’s a safe route. Even though I am more at ease than on an unfamiliar path, I can’t help but feel disenchanted looking at all the defaced properties and businesses that once filled the streets with life.  
As soon as I saw the market entrance, I quickened my pace. I had kept a medium pace on the way, considering that running often comes off as more threatening than walking. If you are confronted in the Parade District, you can most likely express that you are just passing through to the market and be left alone. In the Killjoy District (sometimes nicknamed the Danger District), most people will not hesitate to attack.  
The markets are not too busy in the early morning. The merchants in their stalls look bored from the few amounts of customers, and some occupy themselves with a trivial activity of dusting off their stands, or picking at their nails. It will be difficult to find a shopkeeper that needs my help if the shopkeepers themselves don’t even have tasks of their own to occupy themselves. I offer assistance to multiple establishments, but not a single one required my aid. There’s only one stand left that sells water, and I take one last shot at getting a deal.  
“I don’t need no help,” the vendor spits without looking up from what he was writing.  
He seemed to take my offer for a bargain as an insult. I try to reassure him that I was not insulting his ability as a businessperson, but only trying to make a fair trade.  
“I said I don’t need no help. Now scat!” he looked me in the eyes this time.  
I didn’t need another answer.  
The morning proved unsuccessful seeing as I could not even get myself any damn water. If Phoebe were here, we probably would have looted some gang’s hideout when their back was turned, and been sustainable for an entire week. When living in the city, there proved to be such a vast difference between one person against a pair. Since she died, I haven’t picked up anything new, and our stash of money depleted quickly after I became much less productive in the incommodious depression that followed her passing. But my grieving became cut short after a few days when I realized being so disheartened and dragged caused me to plunge into a vulnerable state. Furthermore, I was beginning to feel ashamed of my inability to cope with singular life in the fallout of a city.  
My last resort would be stealing. However, I already showed my face to all the merchants this morning which meant a high risk of being caught. Still the shopping center was becoming more crowded as the day went on.  
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by a shout in my direction.  
“That’s her!” called a boy with scruffy black hair. Two taller and older girls accompanied him, one with natural long blonde hair, and the other with a dyed black pixie cut similar to the boy’s. After seeing the girls, I recognized them.  
A few nights ago, when my usual dwelling was occupied, I picked the wrong place to sleep. Apparently the basement located under an abandon car wash was off limits despite the fact that no one was using it. In the moment, I figured their gang was just overly territorial, and they didn’t allow drifters to sleep on their grounds. I got away from them that night. At the time, they came after me with knives, but none had guns. There was a fourth member with them then, but now I don’t see him alongside their particular group. He’s most likely back with the rest of their gang, driving defenseless people out of their borders without purpose.  
Accelerating my pace into a sprint, I took off, but above all I avoided departing the market. They will be less likely to pull a knife on me if we stay within the market. Instead, I focus on losing them in the thickening crowd. I weave around the grids of shops, sprinting swiftly in the opposite direction of them, turning corners as tightly as I can. When I reach the other side of the market, they’ve fallen out of sight. To be safe I crouch under a trade table for a few seconds. The woman running the shop doesn’t protest, and lets me stay in my hiding spot. Finally, I walk coolly to the exit of the market with the thought, “I’ll wait until tomorrow for water.”  
Out of nowhere, the blonde and the boy appear and kick me onto the ground. They grab my arms and start dragging me away from the shopping center. I struggle for a few moments, noticing that they grabbed me in such a way that I can’t get my gun. In addition, I am unable to regain my feet, and my arms are immovable due to the two attackers grasping my wrists.  
The black-haired girl watches me while I’m being dragged. Up close, I can’t help but observe she is actually strikingly gorgeous. Her face seems constructed impeccably symmetrical, her jawline could probably be used as a weapon, and I can’t escape noticing her desirable hourglass figure. Nonetheless, I hate her not out of jealousy for her appearance, but because her friends combatively attacked me and are currently manhandling me.  
She smirks at me before turning to talk to her group mates.  
“What do you think, guys? Should we take her back to the hut or take her down ourselves?” she asks them.  
The boy suggests removing me from within reach of the market before they knock me up.  
I’m no longer listening. I’m waiting for the right moment.  
After only a few yards of dragging, I use my feet to latch onto the side of one of the nearby sales tables. My two capturers angrily tug at my arms, stretching my entire body. I refuse to let my feet lose hold of the table. The black-haired girl motions toward the gun she pulls out.  
“You know I really don’t want to do this, but....” her speech is cut off by the table flipping over on it’s side.  
Money and boxes of cigarettes from the sales desk fly onto the floor. They spill on the cement ground and scatter into a mess. The man who was managing it looks furious.  
Upon realizing the expression on his face, the three of them sprint off, leaving me at the mercy of this six-foot-three infuriated shopkeeper.  
I expect him to hit me or something. Instead he firmly says, “I want every penny back in that jar. Every cigarette back in it’s box, or you’re not getting anything from any market around here for a long time.”  
I couldn’t be happier to straighten out his merchandise table. I am free from the grasps of my capturers and their gunwoman.  
After placing all the money back into the jar and waiting for him to count it to make sure I didn’t steal any, I decide I to start my mission again of catching a task from one of the other vendors.  
My search ends in seconds as an older woman approaches me. Her hair is dark gray and her eyebrows more defined than anyone I’ve ever seen. Instantly I recognize her from the table I hid under just a couple of moments ago when I tried escaping the trio that ambushed me.  
She gestures for me to follow her back to her stand. There aren’t a great deal of people nearby. This is the section where they sell merchandise that isn’t of much vitality.  
Her speech is modified with a slight accent that I can’t place, “I hear you’re looking for a job, yes? For trade?”  
“Uh, yeah I’ll gladly help you with something! With pay, of course.” I say assertively.  
She appears slightly amused. I no longer know what to think.  
“I take it you’re not gang affiliated, are you?”  
My train of thought wrecks. That’s an odd thing to say to someone out of the blue. But I admit it’s not incredibly difficult to figure that out. Traveling alone is typically a dead giveaway. Especially when you convey a vulnerable appearance. I may be slightly tall, but my threatening traits stop there. I have a small frame and malnourished sickly yellowing skin that used to be a beautiful dark olive. When people see me walking around alone, they assume it’s probably because I don’t have a choice. And they’re right.  
However, the woman seems pleased that I don’t have any alliances.  
“I have a deal for you if you’re interested,” she says.  
“What kind of deal?” I ask her.  
“I’m not sure it’s what you’re used to, but if you decide you want to do it, I’m offering five hundred dollars,” she says.  
This doesn’t really answer my question, but it’s more than enough to get me intrigued. Five hundred dollars is a fortune around here. To get more information I ask, “What do I have to do?”  
She motions for me to hold on while she rummages through a box of personal belongings. This gives me a second to wonder, “What could she possibly have me do for five hundred dollars?”  
Next, the woman turns back to me with a printed photo in her hand. She slides it close to me so I can see it.  
The picture displays a young couple that resemble an age roughly seventeen or eighteen. I can’t tell if they were just friends or in an intimate relationship. They were standing on a bridge with the city skyline behind them, each with one arm around the other. None of the buildings directly in rear of them were vandalized, but the absence of the Revenge Tower in the distance means this picture was not taken long ago. It was probably only a couple of days after the disappearance of The Four. They were only half smiling, and neither seemed thrilled to be having their picture taken.  
Instantly upon absorbing a final glance at the photo, the woman looks up from the picture straight at me. She’s at least three inches shorter than me. Her hair is well kept but puffy, and falls a bit past her shoulders. She points to the girl in the photo.  
Lowering her voice she whispers, “I want this girl dead. I want you to kill her.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange request from a woman in the market leaves Alex with a tough decision.

The woman’s words baffle me, and I stand for a few moments dumbfounded, unable to sputter a cohesive reply.   
Why would she want me to do her dirty work? Do I come off as deadly or murderous? I’m not robust or bulky, and I’m in a pitiful physical state with no coalition or even a single friend. What could she possibly see in me?   
When I finally gather my composure I ask, “How do I know you’ll give me the five thousand?”  
“Because you’re the one with the gun,” she says smiling.   
I look her over, analyzing her body language for any signs she might be lying and ask, “Don’t you have a gun too?”  
Her feelings are indecipherable by her face, “Yeah, but I’ll give it to you along with some extra ammunition. In fact, you can just keep the gun when you’re done with it,” with a subtle but bitter change in tone she adds, “What am I ever gonna need it for?”   
After hearing her speech further, I notice her dialect is somewhat high pitched with obvious signs of heavy smoking in her past.  
“How would you want me to prove I killed her?” I ask, nervous to receive an answer.  
“Just bring her body to the back of the Revenge Wedding Hall or wherever else you wanna meet. I’ll deal with her from there,” she whispers in caution of the other shopkeepers around her. Despite the risky topic of discussion, there is no sense of urgency in her voice.  
Despite the risky topic of discussion, there is no sense of urgency in her voice, and it’s blatantly obvious this woman has something awful to hide. Why she would ask a random pedestrian to kill a young girl in a photograph, is beyond my knowledge. Although the aftermath of murder would be difficult to live through, it’s a difficult offer to turn down.   
Between the few moments pause, the woman has already retrieved and opened a padlocked box full of cash and counts her money—probably as a way to prove her ownership of the promised reward.   
Out of curiosity I ask, “Where am I supposed to find her?”  
Her expression changes, the spark of interest in her eye turning to a challenging stare, “I’m not giving you any of those details until you agree to follow through. All you gotta do is take my deal and get me the body within three weeks; then I’ll give you the five thousand,” she says shrugging. Muttering cynically, she adds, “What’ll I ever need five thousand dollars for? I’ll probably be dead in five years, what’s five thousand to me?” She reopens the box with a scowl on her face, “You know what, if you decide to agree, I’ll go ahead and give you three hundred of it right off the bat as a down payment.”  
My mind twists at the realization that this woman is not bluffing. Not only does she have the cash to pay the five thousand dollars that would keep me financially secure for months, but she is more than willing to have it taken off her hands. Sure, she seems a bit off her rocker, and her motive is beyond my awareness, but I can tell she’s not going to deny me the full reward. The thought that still plagues me nips at my mind. Why the hell does she want to see this blonde little teenager drop from the face of the planet? What could she possibly hold against her? In complete honesty, I don’t want to know.   
Anyway, despite the generous offer from the bitter old lady, murder is out of my moral dexterity. In spite of that, I still ask what prompted her to choose me as her hired assassin.   
“I saw those moves you pulled on them gang kids a moment ago. You’re a quick thinker. You got some desperation most of these other folks don’t have,” she replies as she lights a cigarette (and confirms my earlier suspicion.) “So you in on this, or not?”  
My eyes drop to my left foot and I scrape the pavement with my toes. I lift my gaze back to her eyes and say, “No, sorry. I’m not really down with murder.”  
“Aren’t you?” she replies unphased, but disappointed. She blows out a whiff of smoke and watches it dissolve into the air as she releases a sigh. “I should’ve known. This city is too uptight. You’d think their principles would be gone by now,” she mumbles trailing the end of her sentence.  
Funny she should claim that the city has principles after watching a threesome beat me down and carry me as a human captive in the middle of the market square. Not to mention her own proposal for assassinating a petite blonde teenager.   
Still, the woman continues, “Listen, I can tell you aren’t as naive as some punks around here. If you change your mind about this whole thing, I’ll be right here. I don’t move around much.”  
“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply before departing for the market again, leaving the woman’s sketchy shop and bizarre offering in the dust.   
I struggle to convince myself that the woman was on drugs, or straight-up neurotic. Without a doubt she was batty, but my intuition knew there were no stimulants or insanity involved in the situation. A crooked elderly woman really asked me to slaughter an adolescent girl through organized crime, and it wasn’t a hoax or a gag. The whole scenario resembled a snapshot of a Disney classic, only I’m aligned with the grisly old villain, off to retrieve the heart of an innocent blonde princess.   
Meanwhile in reality, I mindlessly wander the dusty market streets hoping for a miracle that doesn’t involve me slaying another person. The sky dims slightly, and realizing I’ve spent half my day at the market, I search one more time for any available jobs.   
One shopkeeper rattled off alarming information, “Kid, you’re the tenth person in the last hour to ask me for a job. None of us need help. We can run our businesses ourselves.” He proceeds to his truck after spitting the irritated speech and closes the door trying to maintain his temper.   
After I digest the words, they immediately come back up, forming a sour taste at the back of my throat. It seems other people have concocted a similar strategy to my own, and they’re offering their own services at multiple shops. No wonder my efforts to find a task have been fruitless today! With the scarcity of currency throughout the city’s inhabitants, a mass of other people occupy the vendors that require extra help, making it nearly impossible to get an opening anywhere. In other words, I can’t buy food or water.  
In the meantime, I retire to my decaying home in this decaying city with my decaying mood flattened the entire way home, even as I trudge up the stairs to my rickety bedroom. I collapse onto the mangled bed frame, shed off my jacket, and reposition it on myself to serve as a blanket. After only a few moments of tossing and turning on the uneven surface, I decide the floor is more comfortable until I remind myself of the risk of rats and cockroaches disturbing my sleep.   
Soon, a hollow feeling drilled itself through my stomach, and the cottony sensation on my tongue conceived from dehydration didn’t help either. I spent my day gallivanting through the town center, and I failed to obtain any resources whatsoever. I know better than to wait multiple days before water.   
Finally, I examined my two options: join a gang, or murder for money. In all fairness, neither option sounded exceptionally different than the other, considering I would sooner or later have to swallow my morality and fight with the snakes.   
However, as much as I could benefit from the protection of a gang, the promise of five thousand dollars has left ringing in ears all day, as if the offer was proposed to me in the form of a deafening rock concert, instead of a whispering old woman. In the cities current deflated economy, those kinds of funds would keep me running all winter, and affiliating with a gang wouldn’t necessarily guarantee that sort of security in resources. Besides, either way I will have to suck it up and kill, whether I’m doing it for a gang, or for five thousand dollars.  
I decide the woman’s offer is my best bet at this point, and tomorrow morning I plan to ask her the details of the mission. Ignoring the fact that I am destined to kill in the near future, I use the satisfaction of confirming a plan to lull me to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure if I want to continue with this. It feels kind of cliché. I would rewrite it and take out the fanfiction element of it so it has nothing to do with mcr, but that would take out the original intent behind why I was even going to write it in the first place. Let me know if you have feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> Well I'm not sure how this whole fanfiction thing works, but I'll be updating soon!


End file.
